


Underneath the dirt, dust and debris, something delicate and divine

by Nenchen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Longing and pining, Love, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Past Tense, Romantic Relationship, Rough Kissing, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, and acting on that, is it hurt comfort if the nice part comes first?, what happened after they got rid of the nazis in 1941, words left unspoken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenchen/pseuds/Nenchen
Summary: It's 1941.After Crowley saving him and his books, Aziraphale just can't deny it anymore.(Aka. They snog the ever loving shit out of each other. Then it get's a tad sad. Then not sad anymore!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 131





	Underneath the dirt, dust and debris, something delicate and divine

**Author's Note:**

> This is another work I blame [Kedreeva ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva%20rel=)for.  
> The working title of this was "take me to snurch" which is completely irrelevant but hilarious.

It was a night in 1941.

Not a normal night by far. Nothing was ever normal when a bomb dropped. But for two people, that night was even further from normal, so far that neither of them had realized it yet.[1]

With the dust and the debris the bomb had stirred up, something else had been too. And just like the dust and debris, it slowly started to settle again. Something that had always been there, hidden below layers of denial and doubt, that were turned to ruins by the shock of realization. Something not reformed, but rearranged.

Aziraphale was hit by it when Crowley handed him back the books. His books, his most precious belongings.

_But are they really the most precious,_ a tiny voice inside his head whispered. He squashed it down, right into the dust and debris and dirt. But where he used to chain it down, lock it away, to safe himself, to safe the most important part of him, there was no cage, no chains, nothing left. No self-restraint.

“A little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley said and grinned at him and Aziraphale couldn’t answer, still desperately trying to regain his composure. So, he loosely buried that voice underneath the stones and dirt and dust until it was quiet, and he could move, follow Crowley back to his car.

And as he drove him to his bookshop Aziraphale almost had himself believing that the fluttering of his heart was only because of the new vehicle and its speed, and not because of the wide smile it brought to Crowley’s face.

Thus, he hadn’t thought twice about inviting Crowley in. That’s what they did, what they always had done, for so long. Conversation and wine and meals exchanged for favors or nothing. That was their normal.

And then he was reminded of how far removed this night was from normal, because Crowley set his feet onto the ground and let out a low hiss of pain as he stumbled inside. Understandable, after all his feet had treaded consecrated ground not even an hour ago. To come to Aziraphale’s aid. Even after they had that nasty fight. Even after they hadn’t seen each other for so long.

After freezing for a second, caught in his own feelings, he pushed it down again and quickly followed inside. Still, it sat just on the other side of his throat. But instead of the words that begged him to say them, what came out of his mouth was:

“Sit down, dear, I will take a look at your feet.”

Crowley, already positioned to sit down on the sofa, froze and instead kept standing.

“Really, angel, no need to coddle me. I’m fine. Terrific!”

“Nonsense,” the angel answered as he stepped in front of him and gently pushed him down by his shoulders.

Crowley fell back into the sofa, mouth slightly agape, turned from ramrod straight into a boneless heap with the gentle touch.

Aziraphale swallowed the words down again as he got on his knees to inspect Crowley’s feet. The demon let out a low hiss as he gently ran his fingers over the soles of the not-quite-snakeleather.

On closer inspection they did seem a bit blacker than usual. Bit more of a burnt smell than usual. It must have hurt badly. It must have hurt badly and still Crowley had endured, and talked, and distracted, and saved him.

The words pushed stronger, laying on the tip of his tongue. So he didn’t dare open his mouth.

Instead, he simply summoned some towels and cold water and balms that would probably, hopefully help and got to work.

He washed Crowley’s feet. He rubbed the balm in. He wrapped the towels, drenched in cool water around them.

During the whole procedure, there was no sound, neither from him, nor from Crowley.

And then, he was done.

He looked up to Crowley, intending to say something, but the words got caught in his throat as his eyes took in the demon’s expression. His stare. For a split second he was at the perfect angle to see right through the tinted glasses and into Crowley’s eyes and there was so much, too much, so much that he felt as though something very physical hit him. He staggered slightly backwards, the angle changing, the spell broken.

“Wine?” he heard himself say in a tone he didn’t quite recognize.

“Sounds terrific,” Crowley answered, much the same.

* * *

An hour later, or maybe a few more judging by the empty bottles surrounding them, Aziraphale felt more like himself again. At some point of the evening he had migrated from his armchair to the sofa, Crowley’s legs in his lap, as to keep him from flinging them around too much and dislodging the towels. They’d finally started talking and Crowley was telling stories of the things that happened since they last saw each other.

And they laughed, and they shared, and everything felt just like it had always felt.

Crowley finished his story with a flourish.

“So I said, whooee, seems like you’d better have kept paying for your daughter’s education, and you wouldn’t believe the face he pulled angel. Like he was about to explode, absolutely hilarious.”

Aziraphale turned to answer something along the lines of “Really dear boy, you mustn’t mock a man when he is on the ground (even when it was well deserved in this case)”, but.

Again, no words made it out, as he saw Crowley’s face so close to him.

His lips in a wide grin, eyes crinkled in mirth. Glasses slightly askew.

And he saw, more than he felt it, his own hand, reaching over to the other’s glasses to fix them.

Crowley’s eyes flew open the second he felt the touch.

First, they seemed shocked, but he must have found something when he locked eyes with the angel. His gaze never left as Crowley gently closed his own hand around the angel’s and pulled the glasses off. His eyes laid bare.

Aziraphale could see it, he could see it all, everything whirling around inside of him, hidden away for so long but always there, reflected in the other’s eyes. And he could see that Crowley saw too.

Years, decades, centuries of it, layer upon layer of “Oh you shouldn’t have” and “Let me tempt you to!” and arrangements, and “This one’s on me” and that impossible fondness, crystallizing into one clear picture, one single word.

Aziraphale felt his eyes slip closed. Felt himself lean forward. And then, his hand still gently cradling Crowley’s, he felt their lips gently connect.

The feelings that were stirred up by this were far more pronounced than after Crowley had handed him his books. This was strong, all encompassing, the fulfillment of every wish he had ever felt. Like every wonderful feeling lined up in a banquet of joy.

He never wanted to stop, but the small part of his brain that was still able to think ruined the moment by telling him something.

Crowley’s lips did not move. Crowley had not moved at all.

Oh, had he gotten it all wrong?

He drew back, quickly and opened his eyes again, and there he saw it, right in Crowley’s eyes.

Disbelief. Confusion.

He swallowed heavily once again and turned to move, to get off the sofa, remove himself from the situation and give Crowley space, but a word, just one word freed from its confines stopped him.

_“Please.”_

Aziraphale turned back again, and there he saw it. Disbelief born from wonder. Confusion born from a longing never thought to be fulfilled.

Crowley pulled him back against him and this time, he initiated it. This time he was moving against Aziraphale, with Aziraphale and the angel kissed him back. They were kissing each other.

He could not help it, could not deny himself anymore, could not deny Crowley anymore. The kisses were laced with a desperation that made him pull Crowley closer, hug him to himself. Laced with a want that landed him in Crowley’s lap. Laced with madness and possessiveness and “It’s always been you.” and “Never anyone else.” and “I would give anything for you." and their hands were everywhere they had never been allowed, and they were so close and finally his heart felt light and it beat, strongly, only for Crowley and…

Crowley drew back slightly, gasping.

“ _Angel_ ,” he whispered, awed, disbelieving, delighted and absolutely destroyed.

And that word, brought him to a stop.

He knew what Crowley meant, when he called him that. He knew it couldn’t be further from a simple job description, but it was his job. And Crowley was a demon.

If he allowed this to continue, if it ever came to light… what happened to the three in the church would seem pleasant compared to what would happen to Crowley.

He drew back. Took in Crowley’s wonderfully messed up form, his labored breaths, his lips swollen from the intensity of their kisses, his eyes glazed over with a cocktail of want and happiness and…

Aziraphale swallowed hard. The words wanted to come out so badly. But he couldn’t let them. He’d been selfish enough already.

“My _dear_ ,” he started.

His voice cracked when he saw the understanding dawn in Crowley’s eyes, the painful reality of it clouding them.

“We _can’t_ ,” he choked out.

Neither of them moved. Crowley’s arms were still around his back. One of his hand’s was still buried in Crowley’s hair.[2]

But with those words the demon slumped over as if he’d been hit by a projectile. Buried his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I know, “ he answered, voice muffled.

Still, both stayed just like they had been.

After a moment, Crowley spoke up again, his voice small.

“Just… can you hold me? This once?”

Aziraphale knew he should deny him. It would only serve to hurt them both more. Only serve to make the risk bigger, every minute they were like this.

“Of course,” he said instead. Because he wasn’t ready to let go either.

And so, he sat, with Crowley against him in his lap. Absentmindedly petting the demon’s hair, down to his back, again and again, until the shaking subsided. Though he wasn’t quite sure which one of them had been shaking.

He looked down to see Crowley’s eyes closed, chest moving with long, deep breaths and his body slack. Asleep. Aziraphale knew that, in this moment, his expression told of everything. His eyes betraying all of the emotion he didn’t let form into words. He had to put an end to this, now, or he’d never be able to.

So, he gathered the sleeping demon into his arms, carefully, and with a snap they were in his flat. Aziraphale had known about it, even before the demon had told him this evening. Not seeing each other didn’t mean not keeping an eye out. He trusted that the Bentley would find its usual place by itself.

He wandered the empty, barren, cold corridors of the place Crowley lived in, looking for his bedroom. Saw the modern kitchen, full of the latest gadgets but unused. He saw the sofa that seemed like it had never been sat on. He saw the throne. He saw the plants. And, finally he saw the bedroom. And he was relieved as he gently lay Crowley down and realized that at least this was comfortable.

With another snap he got Crowley changed into some suitable sleepwear and tucked him in.

And then it was the moment to leave. But he couldn’t seem to move his feet.

Crowley murmured something in his sleep that sounded an awful lot like his name, and the words pushed at his throat again.

A kiss goodbye was only good manners, wasn’t it?

He moved to sit next to Crowley, allowing himself to drop a last kiss into his hair, only noticing he was crying when he saw the drops landing in there too.

“Someday. Someday I will say it to you, out loud and unafraid. Someday we will not have to stop ourselves, someday we will be free to do as we please. And until then I will be strong and restrain myself, but I will never stop hoping. And I hope that you will trust in me enough to do the same. And I hope you will never doubt what you knew for sure this evening.”

Willing himself to leave, Aziraphale stood up. It felt wrong to leave. This place was so cold and hopeless, and he couldn’t help but fear that Crowley would do what he often did. Overthink. Doubt himself. He couldn’t bear to think of making him suffer this way.

Then, an idea came to him. He snapped his fingers transported himself back to his bookshop.

But in Crowley’s flat, on the wall where the demon would find it the next day, after waking up and restlessly pacing through the whole flat, wondering if he’d gone insane now, to think Aziraphale reciprocated his feelings, to think they kissed, he left something.

A statue, taken from a bombed church, the only thing that survived except them. Something to pass off easily as a trophy of some kind. A symbol. A reminder. A promise.

And decades later, when Aziraphale entered Crowley’s flat again after they’d tricked heaven and hell, when they were finally free and unafraid and unstoppable, they stopped at the statue.

And they smiled at each other as they set off to continue just where they had left off.

**Author's Note:**

> 1  If the tree had been this far removed from Eden, humankind may have never been cast out. But then again, that wouldn’t allow this metaphor to work. [return to text]  
> 2  The dashing hat long since fallen to the floor. [return to text]  
> 
> 
> Come visit my tumblr at [goodduckingomens](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goodduckingomens). I am actually not quite satisfied with how this turned out, so if you have criticism, please keep it to yourself. Comments and Kudos very much motivate me, so please leave some if you had fun! Keysmash comments appreaciated for the true Crowleys out there.
> 
> In case I am missing a tag you think should be added, just comment!


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